


Farewell

by Dwimordene



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Drama, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 08:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4214956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dwimordene/pseuds/Dwimordene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gilraen gets short shrift. Next to Arwen, she's the most important woman in Aragorn's life, yet she doesn't appear anywhere except the appendix. This is my attempt to let her have her one moment in the sun, not that she asked for it, because she wouldn't. With a title like that, need I say that it's angsty?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

Daylight was fading in the west when the door opened quietly, and a tall, dark silhouette slipped inside. The candle on the table gave little light to see by, but she needed it not, for she knew her visitor's identity. She always knew when it was he, and when it was some other: it was an instinct, an instant attraction that flowed through her like the very blood in her veins. He made no sound as he approached, but she needed not hearing to track him: she could trace his path in the darkness of the deepest night, and a smile touched her lips as memories welled up. 'My son,' she murmured softly, not wishing to break the mood. There was a pause, and then hands settled firmly on her thin shoulders. 

  


'Mother,' his voice, too, was low and intimate, _alive_ , with a music in it that reminded her often of her husband. The hands on her shoulders tightened briefly, and lips pressed against her cheek. She raised her hand and laid it against his face, feeling the course stubble of a week's journey or more, and smiled. 

  


'Did you hurry?'

  


'Do I not always?' said he, and she heard the grin in his voice as he answered her traditional question with the usual reply. Then, more seriously, 'I would I could come more often.'

  


'I would that you would not come so often as you do,' she replied, 'You are needed elsewhere, and I am well-cared for here.' A pause. 'Will you stay long?'

  


'Alas, I cannot. Perhaps a fortnight, but no more.'

  


'Such a long journey for so little time of rest! Tell me: you did not come only to look in on me, did you?'

  


'You have been ill.' It was not a question, and under the pressure of her hard gaze, he added, '"Night brings news to near kindred," they say.' At that, Gilraen sighed, and wondered if she wished Aragorn had not been gifted with so reliable an instinct for trouble. She took his hands—strong hands, callused and rough from sword and weather, but warm and comforting nonetheless—and tugged, so that he came round the chair to kneel before her. _So scruffy, my son!_ was what she thought, but fondly, and also with a familiar hint of anxiety, quickly suppressed. No mother could rest easy when her child's destiny drew him to perils most mortals could not bear to think on, let alone face. She could not change that fate; indeed, she could only offer her son up to it and trust that the One did not intend for Middle-earth to end with this Age. Anxiety had been her lot in life, had shaped every breath since that fatal day when she had accepted her husband's suit: a long life of waiting ever in the shadowed half-light, hoping ever for the return of her loved ones and fearing never to see it. Sometimes that fear was realized: Arathorn's premature death had taught her the pain and patience of a widow, which she had borne now for nigh upon eighty-five years. She had, in fact, been a widow for longer than she had been either wife or virgin, and still the nights were miracles of bittersweet remembrance. _Ah my Arathorn! Would that love were enough to forestall our fates. Alas that it is not so!_

__  


She gazed steadily at Aragorn, who waited for her to speak her purpose. She had watched her son grow to manhood and take up his father's burdens and more, and daily she prayed for his safety. It was no wonder that though no more than twenty-four years her son's senior, she looked twice his age. It was no wonder, given the burden of care that sat upon her, that she sickened, though as yet the poisons of the flesh had not darkened the soul that cried out within its vessel. She had but one duty left to perform: to protect Aragorn from her own weakness for as long as she could draw breath… but that time was well nigh at an end. And yet, as she gazed down lovingly at her son (whose eyes betrayed a growing concern) and debated what she must tell him, she found that she yet lacked the strength. Instead, she said with a smile, 'I mend, my love. And though I doubt not that you have other tasks to attend to, the sight of you does me more good than Dirlas' potions.'

  


Aragorn rose and squeezed her hands, but gave her one of his long looks that said he was not convinced that that was all she had to say. Perceptive, her son, but too much the gentleman to pry in less than dire need, and Gilraen smiled gently. 'I owe Dirlas many thanks, even so,' he replied, accepting the change of subject. 

  


'What thanks is there between kin? You know she might as well be your sister; you and Halbarad are that close even if neither had a drop of blood in common, and even were she not daughter-dear to me,' Gilraen replied. 'Would you fetch me some tea, love? I would prefer to be awake if we are to talk.'

  


'Should you not rest? My news can keep 'til the morrow,' Aragorn responded, nevertheless going to do her bidding. They had had this conversation before, and stern though his will might be, he had learned that there were some forces in the world against which no man could hope to stand. Gilraen's authority in her own house was one of those forces, and he, being no fool, gave way gracefully, though not without worry. He poured two cups from the kettle on the hearth and turned back to the table where Gilraen sat.

  


'Talk is better than rest, though I fear I have naught but idle chatter in exchange,' his mother replied, accepting the cup he brought back for her. 

  


'It is never _idle_ chatter, mother,' said he, sipping his own cup. 

  


'Flatterer!' Gilraen snorted in a most unladylike manner, and after a swallow of her own, said firmly. 'Now, tell me of your journeys, for I hear but pieces here and there when some poor man comes in out of the Wild.'

  


'There is little to tell that is truly new,' he replied. But then he launched into the tale in earnest, with an animation that might have surprised those who did not know him well, and who had not seen him in such a mood before. 

  


For though there might have been little that he considered new, he seemed bent on entertaining her tonight, and Gilraen laughed as she had not since his last visit, over five years ago. 'Perhaps little is new, but it seems that the world has grown comical to hear you tell it!' she accused, wiping at her eyes. 

  


'Comical indeed, for those with an eye to see it. 'Tis ever so when the Age turns blacker, that men find such laughter as they can, a Ranger no less than any other,' said Aragorn with a wry smile that was haunted by darkness nonetheless. 'For truly, the Dark Lord has grown in strength. From Anduin to the Gap of Rohan, there is rumor of war and fell creatures stalk the land in bands that need armed force to repel, and they go ever more brazenly. In the north, too, things move. Around the Bree-land we hunt spies, but still some slip through our net, I fear.'

  


'The Rangers have been busy here, as well,' Gilraen replied, 'Halbarad has called on the guardstead to help keep the borders of the Angle intact.'

  


'I saw them as I came in, and I wondered what had happened. Halbarad is out tonight, or I would have spoken with him ere I came here, even. The guard captain gave me the worst of it, at least: Orc bands coming down out of the mountains, heading south.' A silence fell between them, each lost in his or her own thoughts. Though Aragorn did not mention the body count that had been reported to him, Gilraen knew of it. Too many new white stones had been placed upon the burial plains of late. Then Aragorn shook himself out of dark thoughts and said, 'Still, there is cause to hope. The Enemy has It not, and knows not where It lies.'

  


'And you?' Gilraen raised a delicate brow, for she was well-versed in the history of Isildur's Bane, and suppressed a smile when her son answered her with a matching gesture. 'You can hide much from others, Aragorn, but I am your mother. You know where this thing is, I read it in you.'

  


'It is only a guess,' he replied slowly.

  


'But it is enough to frighten you,' she said quietly, peering closely at him over the rim of her mug.

  


Aragorn appeared lost in thought for a moment, but she waited, and finally he replied, 'I would be a fool not to fear It, no matter where It may lie hidden. The thing grows in the mind, and sometimes I wonder whether it is fear or lust that keeps thought of It there.' He was silent a moment, and then in a low voice, added, 'Almost, I wish I did not guess, that I knew too little to suspect.'

  


'Almost,' she repeated, and did smile, knowing him well. 

  


'Aye, almost,' said he, and smiled as well. In the candle-lit darkness, they sat and felt themselves very close in the gathering night. After a time, they shook off the shadow and their talk turned to other things: to the doings of the Dúnedain in the Angle, the sorts of things that interest only those who live there, the discussion of which satisfies a profound need in people who face too often matters of unearthly weight. They spoke of Halbarad and his sister, Dirlas, whom Gilraen loved well; of old Caranthar, one of Arathorn's lieutenants who still lived; of a brief visit by Elrohir, who had come seeking a conference with Halbarad on some matter.

  


'Elrohir bade me give Estel greetings from his brothers,' Gilraen said, 'and to say that Arwen sends her love.' Mention of Elrohir inevitably drew them on to memories of Rivendell, which Aragorn had learned to call home even more than the Angle. In their soft-spoken remembrances, they savored the peace that they had known in that enchanted valley, and felt the ghost of its power flow over them once again. The candle had burned quite low when at last they rose and went to their beds.

  
  


***

  
  


With the turn of the new millennium, only seven years before, Gilraen had removed to the Angle, the home of her childhood and hidden town of the Dúnedain of Arnor for generations. Aragorn had come to visit her once in that time, for he had been called away by Gandalf to the lands beyond the Misty Mountains. But she remembered well how it had been when he had come to see her before in Rivendell, and she expected some disaster to arise that would call him away sooner than he had intended. It was almost always thus, and she no longer resented the wedge that fate drove between them. She regretted it, and spent the long days missing her son, but she would never have asked him to turn aside from whatever tasks called him, be they ever so perilous. Yet a week passed and in spite of the heightened alarm in the Angle over the Orcs, nothing called him away. Gilraen relished his presence in her house, and hoped it would last. 

  


'I fear to rejoice too early,' Gilraen said one evening, and laughed like a young girl afraid to name her love aloud lest the naming break the spell. 'Peace has been so elusive for so long, I fear now to count upon it when it comes calling.'

  


'As do I,' Aragorn replied. He gazed at her a moment, then asked, 'Does it anger you that I so often leave in the middle of a visit, and that I come so rarely home?'

  


Gilraen considered him a moment, then shook her head. 'Nay, it does not. Once, it might have, when I was younger and your father was still alive. Then did I resent the duties that drew him away. But one learns,' she ended philosophically.

  


But Aragorn shook his head now, and replied, 'Nevertheless, I know well that I neglect my duty to you, as a son. There are few things I regret more than that, and if I could, I would return more often.'

  


'But I do not ask that of you,' Gilraen replied gently. 'Only do what you must, that _is_ your duty to me, just as mine to you is to wait.' 

  


And Aragorn, hearing this, was silent awhile, thinking, and then he laughed softly and said, 'Duty! And what of love?'

  


'You know better than that,' Gilraen replied simply. 'I taught you long ago—'

  


'—Duty done well is love itself,' Aragorn finished for her, and shook his head. 'Of all the lessons, the most simple, and yet the hardest to learn!'

  


'Aye, but you have learned it, and so I wait not only willingly but gladly as well,' Gilraen said.

  


After that, Aragorn seemed easier, and not least because fate continued to turn a blind eye on them, just this once, for nothing disturbed them. And yet time did not stand still there, for the Dúnedain were mortal Men and had not the power of the Elves. All too soon there came a day when Aragorn's travel pack sat near the door, and he himself was not at hand, having gone out to say his farewells to friends he had not seen in years, and perhaps would not see again before the Age ended. And of course, Halbarad and he had much to discuss concerning the movements of the Wandering Companies. Gilraen seated herself in her customary chair, closest to the fire, and waited for him to return, composing herself, for this would be a painful parting—more painful than any they had endured before. _But I have had these two weeks, and that is strength enough for me to draw upon,_ she reminded herself sternly.

  


The sun rode low in the sky when at last the door opened, and Gilraen wordlessly stretched her hand to her son, and Aragorn caught it and bent his head to kiss it. His mother smiled at the gesture, and she said softly, 'It has been a lovely visit, love, longer than I expected.'

  


'I will come again when I can,' he began, then paused when she shook her head. 

  


'Nay, my son, you will not.' Gilraen lowered her eyes. 'Aragorn, my love, there is a matter we must speak of. Sit down.' She indicated the chair across the table, but Aragorn dragged it round to sit directly before her, and Gilraen smiled sadly as she reached out to cup his cheek in her hand. 'I have not said it in so many words, not in all our talks, but I have missed you all these years, my son, though you will find no one who understands better what drives you. And so I let you go without bitterness, though not without fear. I hope you will not begrudge me that.' 

  


'What could you ask that I could begrudge you, mother?' Aragorn asked, taking her hand from his face and holding it between his own.

  


'That you stay with me, here,' she said quietly, 'That you be someone other than who you are, and so lessen yourself in order to fit yourself into my own narrowing world. Hush, let me finish!' she said, laying a finger to his lips to silence him. 'I could have asked that of you, but as I said, I maynot. I _will_ not." She gazed deeply into his eyes, sea-grey as her own, and smiled sadly. 'Would that you had known your father, or that I had spoken more of this when there was still time! He and I, we thought to face the darkness together, for we knew that you would never be solely ours. We thought to have each other at least, and I would have waited for him over the years, just as I have waited for you. But it was not to be. I think I have had the better part in that bargain, for I have known you, and seen you grow to be more than even your father was. But though you shall grow greater still, in the face of the test to come, I shall not see it,' she sighed, and the words came bitterly from her lips. 'This is our last parting, Estel, my son. I am aged by care, even as one of lesser Men; and now that it draws near I cannot face the darkness of our time that gathers upon Middle-earth. I shall leave it soon.' 

  


His hands tightened about hers, almost painfully so, and she saw that he understood. But even so, he could not forbear to plead with her, saying, 'Yet there may be a light beyond the darkness; and if so, I would have you see it and be glad.'

  


Gilraen heard the pain in his voice, and closed her eyes, unable to bear it. She strove with herself to respond, and at last, she said simply, dredging up the words that had long ago marked her life: '"Ónen i-Estel Edain, ú-chebin estel anim."'* She opened her eyes, but it seemed a sort of blindness had come over her. The room seemed terribly dark, and though she felt Aragorn gather her in his arms, she could not see him. She clung silently to him, almost desperately, knowing she would have no other chance to hold her child, unless beyond the realm of the world they should meet. 'Do you leave tonight, love?'

  


'Yes.' His voice sounded taut, but it did not waver, and she felt an enormous relief at that.

  


'Good. 'Tis better so. Think no more on me, Estel, for I have fallen out of this world and have no more claim on the living.'

  


* * *

  
  


In the days after the Third Age, when Gondor and Arnor again had a king and the western lands at last knew peace, the Angle remained a settlement of the Dúnedain. But though secrecy had been abandoned, the people of that town retained many traditions that would in later days seem odd even to their descendants. But that is, perhaps as it should be, for they were the oldest stronghold of the Dúnedain of the North that survived into the Fourth Age. Among the customs that the southern peoples found peculiar was the retention of burial grounds, even for the high among them, rather than silent mausoleums. Behind the town in the Angle, there lies the cemetery field: broad and green, shaded by rowans in places and bearing a number of smooth, white stones that jut out of the ground at intervals. And it was in that field that the Dúnedain of the Angle chose to honor their forefathers, who endured sacrifice and hardship for more than a thousand years before Elessar's crowning vindicated their efforts. As monuments go, it is among the smallest and most humble, but the Dúnedain found it fitting, symbolic of the nature of their long labours. Moving among the grave markers of ancient houses, a traveler will find a trio of stones, set a little apart from the others by the furthest grove of trees. There stand two flat slabs flanking a gravestone, and these two are covered in writing. The letters are fashioned in elvish-script after the manner of the Sindarin spoken of old in Arnor. For those who can read such letters, they spell out the names of fourteen Dúnedain chieftains, only one of whom did not die with that title: seven upon one stone, and seven upon the other. The gravestone, though, was set there long before the other stones, and bears but two names. The first reads thus:

  
__

Arathorn II son of Arador, fallen chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor. 

  


Beloved husband and a father missed.

  


The second inscription, though, is unique—of all the names, the only feminine. The elegy is short, but was long remembered, and pleased would she have been who had earned it, for she never claimed aught else of title or honor for herself but what was written on that stone:

  
__

Gilraen daughter of Dírhael, wife of Arathorn II

  


Among the great accounted sage,

  


The mother of Hope in that dark Age.

  


 

  
  


*******

  


* RotK, 388

  


* The Angle: Reference gleaned from: "Of thegns and kings and rangers and things." March 30, 2001. Michael Martinez. www.suite101.com/article.cfm/tolkien/64660


End file.
